


the life and times of charles vane

by marmolita



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, F/M, Happy Ending, M/M, Non-Sexual Slavery, Pre-Canon, Prostitution, Rape, Slavery, Underage Prostitution, Underage Rape/Non-con, canon-divergent at the end, charles is fucked up okay?, mostly canon-compliant, this is basically a biofic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 12:26:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11486373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marmolita/pseuds/marmolita
Summary: It's not a secret that Charles was a slave, but it's also not a thing he talks about.  It's a thing he'd confessed to Jack one night, when there had been a shipment of slaves in the harbor destined for the inland plantations.  Charles had stared and then gone and drunk himself into a stupor.  Jack had come to fish him out of a fight in the tavern and haul him back to his tent, stumbling and belligerent.  He'd wiped Charles's brow, given him water, and saidif I'm to be your keeper I at least deserve to know why you've gotten yourself into this state.  And Charles had told him, words slurring together, not the specifics but the general idea.





	the life and times of charles vane

**Author's Note:**

> Oh good lord this fic got out of control from what I originally had planned. This is, in its essence, a fic about the life of Charles Vane. It's canon-compliant, up until it's not. Charles did not have a happy childhood, thus the TONS OF WARNINGS.
> 
> WARNINGS: child sexual abuse (occurs at pubescent years in case that matters to you as a reader), slavery, slavery of children, graphic violence, mildly underage sex work (age 17) . . . and there is probably more I'm forgetting so if you come across something I should have warned for please let me know and I will update this note. There are NOT warnings for major character death, because fuck that part of canon, I'm not going there.
> 
> Also since apparently it needs to be said, there are a few retellings of canon scenes that include canon dialogue.

1717

Charles never expected to find himself here: Albinus dead, Flint for an ally, more money than he'd ever imagined.

True, he'd been through hell to get here. Some of Charles's darkest days since escaping slavery had been after Eleanor had turned on him and taken away his captaincy, leaving him wallowing in rum and opium and self-pity. He'd been a fucking wreck, and made a lot of terrible decisions, but he'd somehow clawed his way back out. Killing Albinus had started a new path for Charles, a path not weighed down by Teach, or Eleanor, or anyone.

Now, he's rich. Now, he's got the _Ranger_ back, he's got more gold than he can count, and he's got _partners_. Eleanor is gone for good, and he finds it's a welcome relief. With her gone, his mind is clear, his heart is calm, and he can look toward the future for possibly the first time.

It's in this state that Jack sends him after a fucking slave ship.

***

1698

The ship is gone. Scattered pieces of wood drift in the surf, but the bulk of the hull has descended below the surface, lost to all but the creatures of the deep. Charles coughs and spits sand and seawater out of his mouth, rolling onto his back on the shore. Around him, a few other survivors crawl onto the beach, letting go of the bits and pieces of the ship they clung to desperately during the night.

His mother had slipped into the waves in the early hours of the morning, losing her grip on the plank that Charles had lain on top of, his arms and legs locked around it. One moment she'd been there with him, and the next a wave had swallowed her whole. He wasn't even able to hear his own voice crying over the howling wind.

Arm across his eyes, he squints into the early morning light. A face swims into view above him, but not one he knows. Not any of the sailors on the vessel that had been transporting his mother and himself into indentured servitude in Port Royal, but instead a large man with a bald, tattooed head and an enormous beard.

***

He starts as an errand boy: fetching tools, serving meals, cleaning up after the camp. There are no women. Many of the other survivors from his ship sicken quickly in the tropical clime, and of the score of sailors and bondsmen who had been picked up on the beach, half of them are buried within a month.

When it's clear that Charles has seasoned, they brand him. As an adult, he will think back on this moment and rub the scar on his chest; the remembered smell of burning flesh will turn his stomach. Albinus does the branding himself, as some sort of loyalty ritual, congratulating him when it's done as if it's a victory. The next day, Charles asks the older members of the camp why they don't have the same scar as he does, and learns that Albinus and his crew were once a formidable pirate crew. He looks at the grizzled, sun-browned men around him, and knows that his fear is not misplaced.

When he's perhaps thirteen years old, just starting to develop the muscles he'll need to cut timber, he gets pulled out of bed late at night and hauled with a heavy hand on his shoulder to the taskmaster's room. The taskmaster, Russell, is Albinus's second in command, and the one responsible for doling out punishments -- at least, traditional punishments. Albinus is the one whose blows will come from nowhere, for no reason other than his own amusement, often just before or after kind words. Charles's heart beats like a rabbit's, wondering what offense he's committed, how many lashes to expect. He's already got a crisscross of scars on his back for everything from not moving fast enough to daring to ask for more food. Russell traces a finger down Charles's cheek, and says, "Your mother was a whore, was she not?"

Charles's face colors, but he holds steady. "My father had debts when he died," he replies. Russell laughs.

"A whore by choice or a whore by necessity is still a whore. I wonder, was she good?"

Charles bites his lip. He's learned by now that speaking out of turn means a world of pain, and it's not a question he can answer. Russell doesn't seem to mind the lack of reply. Instead, he takes Charles's hand and draws it to his breeches. He's hot and hard underneath, and Charles's cheeks color even more. He tries to pull his hand back, stomach churning, but Russell holds it there, rubbing himself against it. "I bet you'll be better than she ever was," he says.

***

Charles tries to tell one of the other boys about what happened in Russell's room the next day. He's told, _you're lucky, I hear Russell isn't half as bad as Albinus._

***

1717

"What the fuck made you think I would just hand them over to you, knowing what you know of me?" It's not a secret that Charles was a slave, but it's also not a thing he talks about. It's a thing he'd confessed to Jack one night, when there had been a shipment of slaves in the harbor destined for the inland plantations. Charles had stared and then gone and drunk himself into a stupor. Jack had come to fish him out of a fight in the tavern and haul him back to his tent, stumbling and belligerent. He'd wiped Charles's brow, given him water, and said _if I'm to be your keeper I at least deserve to know why you've gotten yourself into this state_. And Charles had told him, words slurring together, not the specifics but the general idea. He'd passed out, and when he woke, his boots had been taken off, he'd been rolled into his bed, and there was a glass of water sitting in easy reach.

Now, he wonders how Jack could possibly have sent him after a slave ship, knowing the effect only the sight of slaves had upon him. He'd told Eleanor, years before, when she'd asked about the scars she caressed every night. She'd promised him never to trade in slaves, and it was probably the only promise she'd ever kept in her life.

Jack makes excuses. The men want more money, they won't work a schedule, they're not trustworthy and they're not making any progress. "It's five different crews, it's hundreds of men, untold thousands in wages, and I swear to God," he says, "I think that hole in the wall is bigger now than when we started."

Charles stares him down, letting his anger drive away all of the other things he's trying not to feel. _I thought I could trust you_ and _I thought you were on my side,_ he wants to say, but instead he says, "I stood between you and him, Jack. When Flint was ready to wage war against you over the gold, I was the one who said you would manage it as well as anyone could. For the good of this place, I was the one who said you could be trusted."

"Why?" Jack shouts. "Why did you stand behind me in that moment? I'll tell you why, because you and I have been through enough shit that you know I would do the same for you, that I have done the same for you, and that I would again without hesitation." He rises from his chair, eyes shining with emotion, and adds, "I made a commitment to you, with you, to restore this place, to make it strong again. I see no other way to have it done. And I will have it done. I will move heaven and earth to _have it done_ because I refuse to let you down."

They hang there for a long moment, then Charles turns and sits on the table with his back to Jack, so he won't have to look him in the eye and reveal too much of himself. Over the years, he's learned to school his features to only show anger and amusement, nothing of consequence, but Jack's words tug at something inside him that he can't name and he won't expose. Jack's loyalty, his commitment, his--

"I knew this would be difficult for you, so I kept it from you," Jack says quietly. "Please know that I meant no slight by it. No lack of respect, or friendship." He pauses, then adds, "It's quite the opposite."

Charles clenches his jaw against the feelings he doesn't want to feel. Finally, the anger inside him subsides from a raging storm to the distant rumble of thunder, and he turns to look at Jack. "They go free when the job is done," he says. " _Every last one of them._ And you'll help them find work, after."

Jack nods, relieved. "Of course."

***

Charles has been friends with Jack a long time. Not since the moment Jack joined his crew, but it wasn't long after that Jack had proved himself to be more than he appeared. They'd just captured a merchant vessel, and Jack was helping secure the crew's bonds while Charles dispatched the Captain. Anne was close by, wiping blood off her blades, and the sailor Jack was tying up said to him, "You call that thing a woman? Fucking bitch should be put down."

Before Anne even turned around, Jack had pulled a dagger, grabbed the man's tongue, and cut it off. "You want to try saying that again? Hmm?" he'd said in the same tone of voice he'd use to ask about the weather, as the man screamed and blood poured from his mouth. "Oh, I'm sorry, you can't." Then he'd stuffed the man's tongue down his throat until he choked and moved on to secure the bonds of the next sailor as if nothing had happened at all, blood still dripping from his hands.

That was the moment when Charles decided he'd chosen his crew well, after all, and he hasn't regretted it ever since, through everything that's happened. As he watches the slaves work on repairing the fort, he realizes that no matter how angry he is, he still doesn't regret it.

***

Charles seeks Jack out, unsurprised to find him sitting amongst the chests of gold. "Your slaves are making progress," he says, fingers running along the coins scattered about. Jack looks at him, and it takes Charles a moment to identify the expression as _hope_. Jack wears his heart on his sleeve, always has. It's a liability, as a pirate.

"You know I take no pleasure in it. If there were any other way . . . "

"Jack, if I thought it gave you pleasure, I'd have killed you the moment you suggested it." Charles sits down next to Jack, who, chuckles wryly. Jack knows he's not exaggerating.

"The first moment I saw it on the beach, I thought, my god, the things I'm going to build with this.  
A city . . . alive in a place it has no right to be, in defiance of all reason and refusing to be dislodged, but growing and . . . a place that, 50 years hence and when I'm long gone would force the world to acknowledge: Jack Rackham was here." Jack gestures to the gold. "I swear to God, when I sit here long enough, I can hear it laughing at me."

He looks at Charles, and adds, "You don't have to be here, you know. I have made it clear to all involved they are to be treated fairly."

"You think if you refrain from beating them, it's any better?" Charles doesn't look at Jack; he looks down at his hands instead. "It isn't the violence. It isn't the labor or the hunger or the heat or the chains. You know what those men fear right now? It's the unknown." His chest tightens, remembering. "Lash that comes from nowhere for reasons never explained. A visit from the taskmaster in the dead of night. But I remember that fear. Right now, I feel it returning." He looks at Jack, whose brow is furrowed. It occurs to Charles that this is more than he's ever shared about his feelings with Jack, though Jack knows the shape of his past.

"What we're doing here . . . " Charles picks up a handful of gold coins and lets them spill through his fingers before continuing. "Sitting on Spain's gold on England's island, it demands a response. What that response will be, what form it will take, what face it will wear . . . by the time we do know it, there will be no time to prepare for the blow that follows."

***

1704

At seventeen years old, Charles Vane has grown strong. He works hard all day, muscles burning as he hauls timber, and collapses into his bed exhausted every night. Sometimes, he sleeps.

Sometimes, he's summoned for other duties.

Russell isn't the only one who takes Charles in the middle of the night, he's just the most frequent offender. Charles has learned, over the years, how to make it quick. How to do what men want, the way they want it, so that it will be over and he'll be left alone. He's learned the hard way what happens if he refuses.

It's quiet tonight. Many of the men have taken a load of timber down to the beach to load onto a ship for trade, and the camp is largely empty. He's on his knees in Russell's room, doing his best not to choke. Russell always likes to talk while fucking Charles's face, but tonight his words turn from the usual. "Albinus has had his eye on you," Russell says, breathing heavily. "I saw him looking at you yesterday. Told him how tight your ass is." Russell's hands twist in Charles's hair, and Charles finds it harder than usual to breathe. "You're getting old for me anyway. That new boy, what was his name? Doesn't matter, he's got a nice mouth on him. I think I'll--"

Something snaps inside Charles. The new boy, Julio, is barely twelve years old. He can't just sit by and allow Russell to do this to another boy, even if it kills him. Charles bites down, hard. Russell screams and slaps at Charles's head, but he's already backing up and grabbing the chamber pot, which he swings in a wide arc, smashing it into Russell's skull. There's a sickening crunch, and Russell falls to the floor with a thump. Charles breathes: in, out. Blood drips down his chin. There are footsteps coming, men shouting, and Charles realizes it's now or never. He runs and doesn't look back.

*** 

"I can work my passage," Charles says, looking the Captain in the eye. It's hard, after so many years spent keeping his gaze deferentially lowered, but he needs to pass himself off as just another youth from town in need of a job.

The Captain, a swarthy old man named Williams who is missing the bulk of his teeth, stares down his nose at Charles, then chuckles. "You ever been on a boat before, boy? You have the first idea how to sail a ship?"

"I can learn. If I can't help with sailing, I can swab the deck, or help the cook, or any other job needs doing."

Williams leans back in his chair and eyes Charles consideringly. "Just what is it makes you so eager to get to Port Royal? Are you running away from something? Someone?" He reaches out and Charles flinches away, then forces himself to hold still. Williams pushes open the collar of Charles's shirt, then curses.

"Wait!" Charles grabs at the Captain's arm to stop him from opening the cabin door. "Don't send me back there," he pleads desperately. "If you don't need a sailor, and you don't need a laborer, then--" He hesitates, steels himself, then changes his posture ever so slightly. He looks at Williams through his lashes, turns so his hip is jutting just so, and licks his lips. "I can make it worth your while. I'll stay out of sight and be gone as soon as we dock."

Williams laughs, and Charles hopes his tanned skin hides his flushed cheeks. "Boy, do you really think there's anything you can offer me that's worth getting on Albinus's bad side?"

"He won't know it was you. You're leaving today. There are any number of other ships in the harbor. I'll-- I can hide in the hold, jump overboard as soon as we're in swimming distance of shore." Charles takes a breath to calm his racing heart, and forces himself to notice that Williams's gaze has been wandering over his body. "As for whether it's worth it, well, why don't you see for yourself?" He gets on his knees and starts working on the laces of Williams's breeches.

Williams doesn't stop him.

In the end, Charles makes it to Port Royal, but he feels like he's crossed a line there's no coming back from.

***

1717

They sit there together in silence for a while, shoulders touching companionably, surrounded by piles of gold. Charles knows that Jack is gearing up to ask him something, so he waits. Jack starts twirling a coin between his fingers. Charles waits some more. Finally he says, "Jack, if you have something you want to ask me just fucking do it already."

"You said, a visit from the taskmaster in the middle of the night," Jack says diffidently, not meeting his gaze. Charles raises his eyebrows, and Jack continues, "There can't have been any work to do at a timber camp in the middle of the night."

It's not a thing that Charles has talked about, not with anyone. It's not a thing he's wanted to talk about. It's been too close, too painful . . . but he finds that he wants Jack to know. "I was a boy," he begins. "Man there liked boys."

"Jesus Christ, Charles," Jack mutters.

"When I escaped, it was because he was going to start with a new boy. Didn't want that shit to happen to anyone else, so I killed him. Least, I think I did. Hit him so hard I could hear his skull crack. He went down and I didn't wait to see if he got up, just ran."

He looks at Jack, whose face is contorted with sympathy and disgust.

"Go on then," Charles says. "Say what you want to say."

Jack fingers the gold coin again. "I wish I could have slit that man's throat like I did Anne's husband."

Charles leans into him, pressing their shoulders closer together. "You're a good man, Jack."

***

1704

Port Royal is a busy town, full of merchants, navy officers, and pirates alike. Of course, the pirates of Port Royal will be quick to tell you they're privateers, sailing under a marque from the British Government, but it's only just enough to legitimize them. Charles finds work at the docks, performing the heavy labor of loading and unloading ships and occasionally helping with repairs when a crew is shorthanded.

It's not an easy life, and when there aren't any ships in port, it's a hungry one. Once, lightheaded from days without food, he thinks about finding the person who had bought his bond -- the person he belongs to, in theory. At least bondsmen get regular meals. But after spending years belonging to Albinus, no matter what the paperwork says, Charles Vane will never go back to servitude. Instead, he wanders the streets, lingers on street corners, sucks cocks in the alleys for pennies.

There's a brothel in Port Royal, down the end of a dark street on the edge of town. The madam finds Charles lingering outside during a storm, soaked to the bone and shivering. He prepares himself for a fight, expecting to be told off for taking away her custom. Instead, she brings him in and lets him warm himself by the fire in the kitchen.

"I can't pay for this," he tells her as she puts a mug of ale and a bowl of turtle soup in front of him. His stomach clenches painfully at the scent -- it's been two days since he's eaten.

"You can work it off," she replies, sitting down across from him. "Eat; nobody wants to fuck someone who's just skin and bones."

"I can do labor for you. Clean, fix things."

"Honey," she says, face surprisingly gentle, "you were on my corner trying to take my girls' clients. You really gonna try to tell me you're not a whore? Eat your damn food."

He eats. While he eats, the madam, whose name he learns is Clara, lays out her terms. It's the storm season, and he won't be able to get regular work at the docks again for at least a month. Until then, she's offering him two meals a day and a roof over his head in exchange for his work, plus five percent of the money he brings in. "You ever fuck girls?" Clara asks.

Charles shrugs. "Not for money." When the ships were in port, he'd taken a couple of tumbles with servant girls in town, but there hadn't been any negotiating.

"You'll learn," she says, patting him on the knee. "Come up to my room when you're done. Top of the stairs on the right. I'll teach you everything you need to know."

He stays with Clara for the fall, and learns the ways of female pleasure. The clients are still men, but some of them prefer to watch Charles fuck the girls rather than do it themselves. The girls are happy enough with that arrangement -- at least they don't have to worry that Charles will hurt them. Regular meals do wonders for his body, and his musculature starts to mature into manhood.

When he's not taking clients himself or servicing the madam, Charles keeps the men who come to the brothel in line. He learns to fight, ducking under drunken punches, hitting men who can't pay with a well-placed fist to the stomach.

The first ships arrive again when the storms have cleared, and Charles takes his leave of the brothel and goes back to the docks. He starts fighting for money, when he can't get other work. At first, he mostly loses, but eventually he starts winning. Fighting is a thing that he can control, a use of his body that's his and his alone. It comes naturally to him, and he finds it's not hard for him to pick up new ideas by watching the other fighters.

Most of the time, between working on the docks and fighting, he can keep his belly full. Sometimes, when he's on a losing streak, he goes back to what he knows best.

***

1717

Charles lingers over the remains of his dinner, watching Jack dicing from across the tavern. Jack's wrist twists, flicks, and the dice skitter across the table. A win, this time, and Jack grins and gathers his coins. While Charles has been watching, Jack has been winning more than he loses, but only barely. It's somehow soothing to him to watch Jack gamble, to see him bite his lip as the dice tumble and wobble to a halt, to see his eyes light when he wins and his forehead crinkle when he loses.

Charles looks up, hand reflexively on his cutlass, when a shadow falls across his table, but it's only Anne. "He's worried you're still mad at him," she says, leaning against the wall.

"The fuck does it matter?"

She shrugs. "Matters to him." Charles offers her his bottle, mostly empty already, and she takes a long drink. Charles _is_ still angry. He walks past the crew of slaves working on the fort every fucking day and it makes his blood boil. He's angry at himself, for not having a better way, and angry at the world for the fact that slavery exists at all, but he's not angry at Jack.

There's an uproar at the dice table as Jack wins again, substantially this time. Anne looks at Jack, then away. "What happened with you two, anyway?" he asks.

"What, me and Jack?" He doesn't answer, and she eventually says, "It was too much, me and him and Max."

"Now what, it's just you and Max? I haven't seen Jack touch you in months."

"I ain't fucking him no more, if that's what you want to know." A disappointed groan echoes through the tavern as Jack loses his next toss. "Jack's my partner. Not my husband." She turns her head slightly to look at Charles. "What's it to you, anyway?"

Charles shrugs. He doesn't know, exactly. Jack's eyes meet his across the room, and he calls out, "Going to wish me luck, Charles?"

"Fuck you, Jack," Charles calls back. Jack loses the toss, and Anne drops into the chair beside him.

"He still wants you," she says. "Never stopped wanting you."

There was a time, years ago, when Anne had approached him about Jack's feelings. "Jack wants to get fucked," she'd said, "by you." It hadn't been a surprise. Charles knows when men want him, and he'd known then that his crew was too fucking scared of him to try anything.

"So?"

"So what, you wanna fuck him or not?" Anne had sounded annoyed, but then, Anne always sounded a bit annoyed, so Charles didn't mind.

"I don't fuck my crew," he'd said instead. "Jack wants to get his ass pounded, get a whore."

Anne had sworn and muttered, mostly to herself, "Where the fuck do you find that kind of whore?"

"Not at the brothel, that's for fucking sure. Check by the warehouses. Closer to the docks will be cheaper. Better whores up by the bigger warehouses. You want a bed you'll have to take him there, otherwise you'll get the alley. Have to pay more if you want to watch." She'd stared at him with incredulity, but he hadn't looked away from the sea. Jack was a good man, and loyal. If he wanted to get fucked, he should get it done right.

She'd finally asked, "Fuck d'you know all that shit?"

Charles had shrugged. "Used to fuck for money, before Teach." He's still not entirely sure why he'd told her, other than that Anne has always been the most closed-mouthed person he's ever met and he was sure she wouldn't spread it around. Probably wouldn't even tell Jack. As far as he can tell, she hasn't, in all their years together.

Now, she looks at him curiously from under the brim of her hat as he downs the rest of the bottle. "You ever end up getting him a whore, back then?" he asks.

"Nah. Got a wooden cock from one of the girls at the brothel and did it myself." Jack shouts as he wins his next toss, and Anne grins sideways at Charles. "Sounded about like that when I did it."

He finds himself smiling back, as his eyes wander back to Jack. He's not mad at him, not anymore, but he's also not going to be at ease until the slaves are freed.

***

He tries to stay away. He tries to let the slaves do their work, to occupy himself with his ship and the defenses in the harbor, but every time he looks at the fort, every time he gets close enough to hear the ring of hammers on rocks, it claws at him in a way he can't describe. Eventually, he gives in. Eventually, he watches them, sweating in the midday heat under Mr. Scott's direction.

Eventually, he shucks off his shirt, picks up a hammer, and works beside them.

The work is monotonous and mindless and backbreaking, and he thinks maybe the rhythm of the hammer and the ache in his muscles will be enough to stop him from thinking altogether. Instead, when his shoulder twinges, he remembers the time he wrenched it trying to haul a log he wasn't strong enough to pull. When his hands chafe at the wood of the hammer, he remembers pulling a saw until his fingers bled. When his back throbs, he feels it most in the whip scars that will never fade away.

The hammer on the rock rings louder and louder in his ears, sound morphing into the raspy hum of saws moving through timber, the crack of rock falling becoming a tree crashing down, until--

"Captain."

He stops his work and turns to meet Scott, who is looking on him with compassion. It makes him sick to his stomach. "I understand why you are here, and I understand why this troubles you. But they do not understand."

Charles lets Scott talk him into leaving. He pulls on his shirt and goes back to his tent, with frustration tightening his chest like a vise. It boils over and he throws his cup against the mirror, shattering it, then sits down to try to regain control of himself.

As Charles trembles with anger and fear and all the memories of his childhood, Edward Teach walks back into his life.

***

1705

He's on the verge of heading back to Clara's when Edward Teach and his crew come to town. Charles has heard of Teach -- _everyone_ has heard of Teach -- and his interest is piqued. Teach has a reputation for being the most fearsome pirate in the Caribbean, and that reputation keeps the one navy ship in the harbor from doing anything about him. That, and the fact that he's rumored to have some sort of blackmail material on the governor. Charles has been around town enough to have heard bondsmen longingly dreaming of going roving on a pirate ship, entering a world where they're owned by no man, where they have freedom to do as they please and, of course, the opportunity to get rich. A year ago, still in the awkwardness of his youth and with no marketable skills, it wouldn't have been a thing Charles would have ever desired.

Now, it's all he can think about. Getting off this island, getting out of this life, never belonging to someone again. Never having to sell himself again. He tries to get work helping with the _Revenge_ 's cargo, but Teach has plenty of his own men to take care of it. He tries to ask the Quartermaster if they're taking on new crew, but the Quartermaster laughs in his face and tells him that Teach only takes _men_ , not _boys_.

Angry and disappointed, Charles makes his way back down the dock, past Teach's crew as they roll barrels of cotton to shore. He hears people talking and laughing as he walks by, and his fists clench, itching for a fight. When one of the men he passes palms his ass and makes a lewd remark that Charles can barely even hear through the pounding of his own blood, he spins around and punches the man in the jaw, knocking him backward.

"Hey, now!" the man says, laughing as he recovers. "I hear tell you're the best piece of ass on this damn island. You need to get paid in advance?" He reaches for his purse, and Charles swings at him again. He feels hot all over, angry and embarrassed, and it comes out with a particular viciousness he hasn't felt since the day he escaped from Albinus. His fist connects with a crunch, and the man goes down to his knees. The other men start to close in around him, and Charles distantly realizes that this is the point where he ought to get scared, but instead he feels ready to take them all on.

"What's going on here?" a voice bellows, and Charles looks up to see Edward Teach himself looming over him.

"Goddamn whore hit me," the man mutters, spitting blood, "even after I offered to pay."

Teach looks Charles over, then laughs. "Stick to the women, Jones, they don't hit back so hard. And you, boy, what are you doing here at my ship?"

"I want to join your crew. I want to be a pirate, not a--" He clears his throat and repeats, "I want to join your crew, and I'm a man, not a boy."

Teach grunts. "You think you can take Jones in a fight?"

Charles looks at Jones, who suddenly appears nervous. "Yes." He's not entirely sure, but if it'll give him a chance at getting a spot on the _Revenge_ , it's worth a shot.

The crew starts to draw back, leaving Charles and Jones in an open circle. "Kill him and you can have his spot," Teach says. Charles swallows, then lets his lip curl into a snarl.

It's not a fast fight. Jones has about four inches and fifty pounds on him, but Charles has learned to be quick, and to read his opponent's body. He ducks under Jones's fists and comes in hard to the solar plexus. Jones recovers quickly and lands an elbow to Charles's face that makes him stagger to the side. They trade blows like this for a while, then Jones throws a wild punch that knocks Charles off his feet. Teach's crew laugh, but Charles gets back up. The laughter blends into the roar of background noise and Charles's focus narrows to only himself and his opponent. He's had a chance to learn Jones's patterns, to see his weak spots, and this time despite the ringing in his ears he takes advantage of them.

Charles dodges Jones's arm and drops low, kicking the side of his knees hard. Jones yells and falls, but Charles doesn't give him a chance to get back up. He's on him in an instant, hands around his throat, knee on his chest. Jones struggles, but Charles presses harder, feeling flesh give under his thumbs.

Jones may not be the first man that Charles kills, but he is the first man Charles watches die. When it's done, the crew mutter amongst themselves. Some of them seem impressed; some were friends of the deceased. Charles wipes his face with his sleeve and it comes away red with blood. "Huh," Teach grunts in surprise. "Welcome aboard. What's your name?"

"Vane," Charles says, shaking Teach's hand. "Charles Vane."

Teach turns to his crew. "I don't care what Mr. Vane may or may not have been in Port Royal. He's one of us now. You know the rule: no women or boys on board, because we don't need that kind of trouble. As Mr. Vane has demonstrated, he is no boy. I expect you all to keep your hands to yourselves." Singling out the quartermaster who had laughed at Charles earlier, Teach says, "Mr. Hands, make sure Vane's given an appropriate assignment."

And just like that, with one life extinguished, another life begins.

***

1717

Seeing Teach again makes Charles uncomfortable in a way he can't quite describe. This life he's made here, with Jack and Anne and the _Ranger_ crew, it's a thing he's done without Teach. It's a life that Teach doesn't belong in. And yet, it would never have been at all without him.

Charles can see the fear in Jack's eyes when he brings Teach into the tavern, but he recovers amazingly well. Jack has always been good at pretending to be more than he is, in such a way that soon everyone forgets that it's a show and it becomes fact. Still, underneath the bluffing and vanity, there's something hard at Jack's core. Teach would do well to not underestimate him, Charles thinks.

"Strife is good," Teach says, and Charles feels his brow furrowing. "Strife makes a man strong. For if a man is capable of confronting death daily, functioning in the face of it, there's no telling what else that man can do, and a man whose limits cannot be known is a very hard man to defeat in battle." It's a line Charles has heard before, has _lived_ before, but he finds that now, it doesn't feel right.

Did his childhood make him strong? It made him the man he is today, there's no question of that, but Charles would spare others the same pain. He would spare the men who've been enslaved the fear that haunts their eyes. He would spare the women and children of Nassau the hardship of hunger. Sometimes, he even looks at fucking Flint and thinks he would spare him his suffering, if that was a thing that could be done.

"Now, I returned to go on the account as I know it. I returned because in this place I believed I could find the men necessary to do so and, in particular, one man that I thought worthy of standing alongside me at the head of a terrible fleet." Teach looks at Charles hard and adds, "I wonder if he's still here."

As he leaves, Charles wonders the same.

***

1705

The adrenaline rush the first time they take a prize is the best thing Charles can remember feeling in his life. It's a heady surge of energy, propelling him across the gap between the ships, cutlass in hand, and he's taken down three men before he even stops to think about what he's doing. A bullet passes too close for comfort, and he swings around to cut a pistol out of another man's hand.

Afterward, Teach takes Charles aside and claps him on the shoulder. He doesn't have to say anything -- Charles can feel his approval in his touch. Becoming worthy of Captain Teach's respect is his loftiest goal, and he feels he's on the right track. If it earns him the respect of the rest of the crew, so much the better.

They put in at Nassau to sell the booty, unloading barrels of tobacco and cotton and making camp on the beach. Charles has felt the eyes of some of the men on him, and doesn't delude himself that they've forgotten his history. Fear of the Captain kept them in line on the ship, but now, with Teach away to handle the business dealings, some of them are eyeing him speculatively. It's not all bad; some of those men have treated him with respect, and under different circumstances he wouldn't mind taking them to bed. It's also been a long few months sailing, the longest he's gone without sex since . . . well. He doesn't want to do anything that makes him look weak or reminds people of his prior occupation though, so he goes along with the men who are heading to the brothel in town.

It's the first time he's been a customer at a brothel instead of an employee, and it's a bit of a hard transition to make himself only pay attention to the girls, instead of evaluating all the men in the room. He goes upstairs with a buxom brunette and passes a pleasant hour with her, tipping her generously when he's done.

It seems to be effective: when he gets back to the camp, anyone who'd been looking at him has either stopped or gone to find other company.

***

When he's been sailing with Teach for eight months, he gets woken up during the night and told that the Captain wants to see him. Charles can't help the twist in his gut. The circumstances are different, he tells himself. He's not a slave, Teach isn't his master, and he's never even caused enough trouble to get a lashing on the ship. He's worked hard, learned to climb the rigging, to tie knots, to swab the deck and keep the cannon ready and fight effectively with pistols, muskets, and cutlass.

Still, a late-night summons to a private room is not a thing that Charles will ever be comfortable with.

"Ah," Teach says, when Charles enters. "Did I wake you? I thought perhaps you were not yet asleep."

Charles clears his throat. "You wanted to see me, Captain?"

Teach sets down the quill he'd been holding and leans back in his chair, pushing it away from the table just a bit. "Come over here," he says, and Charles hesitates. His gaze drifts down to Teach's crotch, but his pants are laying flat and the laces are tied up tightly. "What are you waiting for?" Teach says, irritated. "Come look at this chart."

Charles breathes a sigh of relief, and walks to the table, standing next to Teach's chair. The navigation chart is laid out in front of him, with lines crisscrossing it and notes in Teach's neat hand. Teach points at a spot on the chart. "This is where we are," he says. He points at another place on the chart and asks, "What do you suppose that is?"

Charles squints down at the chart in the dim candlelight. "An island?"

"That's New Providence Island. The circles here mark the towns, and the fort."

 _Why are you teaching me this?_ Charles wonders, but he doesn't ask. Instead, he listens and learns, until finally Teach catches him yawning and says, "It's gotten late. Go back to your bed, but come see me again tomorrow evening."

He nods and turns to leave. "Charles," Teach says, as his hand is on the door. "I've seen your ferocity in a fight. I've seen how far you've come these last months. You have great potential."

"Captain?"

"Go on, then," Teach says, and Charles goes, not wanting to name the emotion that's welling up in his chest.

***

Once Teach has taken him under his wing, Charles works even harder. Proving himself becomes an obsession, especially once the Quartermaster, Israel Hands, starts to look at him with distaste. Despite the disapproval of Hands and his entourage, the rest of the crew starts to respect his position more with each prize they take, seeing his prowess with pistols and cutlass improving beyond their own.

Charles is not a friendly person by nature. He gains respect for his abilities, not for his personality. It's not clear to him what he needs to do to get back in Hands's good graces, or if that's even possible. He considers mentioning it to Teach, but Hands hasn't actually _done_ anything to him, so he expects Teach would just tell him to deal with his shit on his own. Hands also has a reputation for being the most vicious and ruthless of pirates, so Charles doesn't really want to risk making him even angrier.

Things come to a head on land. It's not really a surprise -- the articles prohibit fighting on the ship, but as soon as they're on shore the articles cease to apply. They've been preparing for their next hunt, and the men are gathered for elections on the beach in Nassau. Elections are usually a quick affair for Teach's crew, as there isn't much turnover beyond men who are injured or killed.

"As I'm the owner of this ship, there will be no election for Captain," Teach says, as always. "Up next, the matter of Quartermaster. I nominate . . . Charles Vane."

Murmurs erupt among the men -- Hands has been Quartermaster for ages, and Charles is as surprised as anyone else that he's been nominated. His heart starts racing with nerves.

"I nominate Israel Hands!" one of Hands's friends immediately shouts.

"Are there any more nominations?" Teach yells over the din to quiet the men. Nobody says anything, and Teach nods. "Those in favor of Mr. Hands?" A good number of men shout "aye" and raise their hands, but not nearly the overwhelming majority Charles expects. "Those in favor of Mr. Vane?"

Charles feels his cheeks burn as each hand is raised and counted. Are they voting for him because they actually believe him the best candidate? Or because Teach was the one to nominate him? Regardless of the reason, Charles wins the election by four votes, and is clapped on the shoulder in congratulations by his supporters among the crew. Teach smiles and nods at him, but Hands looks at him with murder in his eyes, and Charles feels a twinge of the old fear running along the scars on his back.

Hands steps forward, glowering at Teach. "You lost your fucking mind, Captain? You're really going to replace me with this _whore_?"

"The fuck did you just say?" Teach asks, eyes glinting dangerously. Charles clenches his jaw and lets his hands fall to his weapons.

"You heard what I said. I've been your Quartermaster for over a decade. Who was it who got rid of that governor for you? What the fuck are you getting from this boy? Does he suck your cock while you read the charts? Does his tight asshole qualify him to run a ship?"

Charles steps forward angrily, but Teach holds him back and steps in front of him. "Charles Vane is our brother under the black. My brother, your brother. He's risked his life for the men on this ship. Since we took him aboard, he's never once complained, never once shirked his duties, and has been at the front of the vanguard in every battle." Teach leans forward, closer to Hands's face. "And accusing me of violating my own instruction that his past be left in the past, accusing me of . . . of giving inappropriate favors, is something that will need to be answered for."

Teach steps back and gestures broadly to the gathered crew, as well as the crews of other ships who gathered near at the commotion. "Israel Hands, everyone, so insecure about his own capabilities that he has to stoop to accusations of misconduct to discredit Mr. Vane. Because he can't accept that no matter how good he is at killing people, he'll never have a head for business. He could never lead Nassau. He'll never be as _smart_ as Charles Vane."

Hands roars in anger and rushes at Teach. Charles draws his cutlass reflexively, but before he can do anything Teach has struck Hands square in the jaw and knocked him back a few steps. Teach looks out at his men. "Articles aren't in effect yet, but you all know the lines. Vane was elected fairly. Hands decided that instead of accepting the result and walking away, he should wrongfully accuse his Captain of misconduct and attack him. What would the punishment be for such a thing, I wonder?"

"Kill him!" someone shouts, and "Beat him!" yells another. Hands rushes at Teach again, but this time men come pouring in, grabbing his arms and legs before he can land a blow. Hands struggles and throws off some of his attackers, but more rush in. Charles stands by, helplessly watching alongside Teach.

Someone fires a pistol and blood sprays through the air, and Teach roars, "Enough!" The men back away, leaving Hands bleeding on the ground, still alive but only just. "Israel Hands, you are no longer welcome on my crew, or any other crew sailing from Nassau. I'll leave you with your life in appreciation for your years of service, but some things cannot be left unanswered."

He turns to leave, and Charles follows behind him.

***

1717

"You want us to combine our forces and engage a fleet of a half a dozen ships, and you want us to do it with six guns supporting us from the fort so that we can frighten the British Navy into retreat?"

The meeting with the other captains is going about as well as Charles expected, which is to say not very well at all.

"We understand there are eight ships, not six," Jack says. "Yes, to the rest of it."

There's swearing and muttering among the men, until Evans says, "It stands to reason that if we threaten to defend this place, then we need to have a plan to follow through. If the bluff is called, then we--"

"There is no bluff here," Charles interrupts. "If we can discourage them from engaging, so much the better. If not, we fight to protect the island."

"With who in command of the fleet?" Throckmorton gestures vaguely. "No one's seen Flint in weeks."

"When he hears news of the invasion, he'll return."

"But if he doesn't? No man has his skill in leading a fleet in battle. Not even you." Throckmorton isn't saying it to be contrary. Charles knows that Flint is a better tactician than he is -- he suspects, though he's never confirmed, that Flint started his career in the navy. He wouldn't be the first.

Still, the opposition they're meeting in this chamber rankles. Yesterday, Charles was ready to say that Teach's philosophy was wrong, that the men here were better off for their prosperity, but now all he can see is their weakness. "What the fuck's the matter with you people?" He rises from his chair. "We haven't done enough for you? You turn your back on us now?"

"You can see his point, though," Evans says. "If no Flint, the strategy involved in coordinating this fleet will be--"

Jack whistles and the men quiet. "That's enough. You, sit down. And the rest of you, please listen closely. I never approved of Eleanor Guthrie's harsh mothering of this place. I believe my record on that issue is in good order. That said, if you're going to behave like children, then I will be your daddy." Charles smirks as the captains look appropriately chastened. Jack goes on to threaten all of their captaincies, promise to sway their men to his side, and call them a bunch of cowards, though not in so many words. It's what Jack does best -- convincing people that whatever he wants is in their best interests. It's what made him a great quartermaster.

They've almost won over the support of the captains when Teach enters, announcing that Flint is dead and fucking everything up again, then vaguely suggesting that perhaps the situation can be salvaged after all. Whether or not Flint is actually dead Charles couldn't say -- the man is more stubborn than a cockroach. Charles expects Teach to volunteer himself to command the fleet; he's the obvious choice for it. He's got the tactical experience of leading a fleet of ships from his time as the leader of the pirates of Nassau, and he's got the trust of half of the captains and the fear of the other half. Still, they retire upstairs to discuss his proposal, because Charles has no idea what Teach is going to ask for in return.

***

1709

"Do something about her," Teach tells him one night, over rum in his tent on the beach. They're deep into a bottle after another betrayal -- this time, Hornigold has joined forces with Eleanor Guthrie.

She's been running her father's affairs since he retired to Harbour Island, and the other black-market buyers have been trying to squeeze her out of the business. Things on the island are tense, but none of it seems to touch Eleanor. All of 17 years old, she has the independence and ambition of a grown man, and twice the intelligence -- all wrapped up in a package more gorgeous than any he's seen before. And all of that cunning is devoted to expanding her own power over Nassau. 

Teach hates her -- this, Charles knows for a fact. Teach wants the power for himself and doesn't want her impinging on his rule of the island. And if Charles is anything, he's Teach's man through and through.

"What do you want me to do?" Charles asks.

Teach sighs. "I don't know. _Talk_ to her. You're young and handsome, maybe she'll be more likely to listen to a man who doesn't remind her of her father."

Charles snorts. "Just talk to her, huh?"

"Whatever you think will get her in line. I'll leave it to your discretion. Don't kill her . . . yet."

Later that night, Charles lays in his bed and thinks of Eleanor Guthrie. He knows she's looked on him with desire, though she's never been in a position to do anything about it; they know each other by sight, but have never had the occasion to speak. She's certainly beautiful enough. Maybe if he gets closer to her, he can convince her that Teach's rule is what's best for Nassau.

***

Two days later, he's lingering outside her office, waiting for her to conclude her business with the men inside. It's not going well. The door is open, and he's leaning against the frame with a glass of rum, listening to the argument over the rate she's offering for their cargo.

"I assure you, gentlemen, this is more than a fair offer and the best one you'll find on Nassau," Eleanor says.

"This is thirty percent less than we usually get for cotton!" It's one of the newer Captains, recently arrived in the Caribbean chasing gold. Charles can't remember his name, but he doesn't think the man will grow to be anyone of consequence.

"Your cotton isn't usually sopping wet and contaminated with fishy seawater!" Eleanor shouts back. "The extra is to cover the cost of cleaning and drying it, and--"

"Go fuck yourself," the other man says as they get up and barge out.

Eleanor sighs and brushes a loose hair back from her forehead. She glances up and seems to notice Charles for the first time. He knows his lips are pulling into a smirk but he doesn't stop himself. "You here to tell me to go fuck myself too?" she asks.

Charles takes a sip of his rum. "Thought you might like to fuck me instead."

Eleanor rolls her eyes, says, "Oh, for--" then cuts herself off and looks at him again. Her eyes pass down the neck of his shirt and linger on his hips. "You know what? Fuck it. Come in and shut the damn door." He grins and steps inside, setting his drink down and swinging the door shut behind him.

She stands and comes around the table, then reaches for him to draw his lips down to hers. Charles puts his hands on her waist and pulls her body close, tongue sliding into her mouth. Eleanor responds eagerly, pressing against him and sucking at his lips. Her hands move down from his neck to his shoulders and chest, where she tugs at the collar of his shirt.

He pulls back just enough to strip off his shirt, and she asks, "You're Charles Vane, one of Teach's men, aren't you?"

"Yeah, fuck's it matter?" He captures her lips again, letting one of his hands move over her breast while the other cups her ass.

She makes a small sound as he grinds himself against her, then gasps, "Not on the table, sensitive papers -- there's a room that connects, with a bed." He lets go of her, and she turns and heads further into the office, unhooking her bodice as she goes. He hadn't been sure if this would work or not, but Eleanor seems to be as businesslike when it comes to sex as she is about everything else.

She strips down to her shift, then she's on him again, all eager hands and mouth. He tumbles her to the bed, climbing on top of her and kissing her lips and her neck. Her hand finds his cock and strokes him roughly, and Charles pushes back against her as he slides his own hand under her shift. Her skin is smooth and flawless, sweaty in the afternoon heat. When he gets his hand between her legs, she's already wet.

He gets her off once with his hand, just like that -- circling her clit until she's gasping and bucking against him. She's gorgeous like this, with her hair coming loose from its coiff, cheeks flushed with ecstasy, breasts heaving. He shucks off his boots and trousers as she comes down, then helps her to strip off her shift, leaving them both naked.

Charles starts from the top -- kissing her lips, then her neck, collarbone, the tops of her breasts. He lavishes attention on her nipples, then kisses his way down her belly. "Christ," she mutters, when he finally gets his mouth on her. He's had plenty of practice eating women out, but it's still a thing he enjoys. While he's circling her clit with his tongue, he slides a finger into her, deliciously hot and tight.

She comes again when he's got two fingers inside her, convulsing around him and letting out a breathy moan. "Didn't expect a . . . fucking _pirate_ . . . to be this good," she pants. "But I thought you said you were going to fuck me."

"We're getting there," he replies, sliding a third finger inside her. "You're so tight, don't want to rush into it."

"I don't make a habit of fucking my clients," she says, still breathing hard, "and practically everyone here is a client."

"Good thing Teach doesn't sell to you." He climbs up over her and she kisses him, then reaches down to grab his cock and guide it in. The friction is perfect, and both of them groan as he slides into place.

He holds steady there for a moment, until she wraps her leg around his hips and pushes back up against him, saying, "I'm taking a risk on you, so fuck me already." Charles grins and starts to move.

Later, when they're both sated and lying together in the bed, Eleanor asks, "Why did you proposition me?"

"I need a reason?"

"Everyone has a reason."

Charles strokes hair away from her face. "You impress me," he says. It's not the whole truth, but it's not a lie either.

"Most men find powerful women threatening."

"I don't feel threatened."

"Your Captain does. Why else would he give a shit about what I do here?"

"Teach just wants to keep things in order."

Eleanor laughs. "What kind of fucking order? The kind where everyone's making half as much money as they could be if they had a lick of business sense? The kind where men are fighting to the death in the streets just to get some of his attention?"

"He's a good leader," Charles says in Teach's defense. "He's kept Nassau secure for years and free from English rule."

Eleanor looks at Charles consideringly. She runs her fingers over the brand on his chest, then the scars on his back. "What exactly do you owe him, I wonder?"

Charles doesn't answer. He can't -- won't -- name the complicated web of feelings he has about his captain, but he thinks that web is about to be stretched to its limit.

***

1717

"I'm prepared to step into Captain Flint's shoes, unify those men, prosecute a defense of the harbor, and repel the Navy from here definitively if once I've done it, you agree to join me in sailing away from here for good," Teach says.

Charles swallows his first reply, then his second, then turns and closes the doors behind him. "You would enter into a fight to defend something you have so little regard for just to have my partnership?"

"Yes. I know you're incapable of running from this fight, going back on your word to your friend downstairs, so I won't ask you to. But I will offer you the best of all possible worlds . . . beating the English, keeping your word to Rackham, and being free of the burden of this place all at once."

"Burden of this place? You not heard a word I've said?" Charles advances on Teach, hands on the hilts of his blades. He doesn't think he's going to have to draw, but he's comforted by having the capability. "I am committed to it." 

"Your commitment is your burden. Consider what this place has forced you to become since you made that commitment." Teach looks Charles over with pity, from his eyes down to his toes. "A slaveholder, a man forced to beg his peers to join him in battle. There's not a man in that parlor who would lift a finger in your defense, yet you would die in theirs."

"Jack would," Charles protests vehemently, heart constricting in his chest. "Jack has." He crosses the room, facing away from Teach until he can school his face not to show emotion: the anger at Teach questioning his position, the fear that Teach is right.

"Of course he has. How else does a man like that survive in a place like this except cleave himself to one stronger than he? And for this, he offers you what? Loyalty? That is how a dog survives. Not a man. I do not seek your partnership because I am too weak to defend myself. I don't seek it to protect my things or to increase profit."

"Then why do you?" Charles spins around. "You've been gone eight years, and suddenly my partnership is this valuable to you? Why?" He searches Teach's eyes for some hint, some clue as to where this is coming from, why Teach would come back _now_. If he wanted Charles to stay with him, why not come sooner? Why not-- Why not make peace with Eleanor? Why not come when Charles fell out of her good graces?

"Eight years," Teach says. "Nine wives." He pauses, and Charles swallows, expecting-- "No sons," he finishes, dropping his gaze, and Charles isn't sure if that's better than he was expecting or worse. "There is an instinct to leave behind something made in one's own image. Nature has denied me the ability, it would seem, but not the need. But whereas the natural way requires no consent from the other party, in this case, I'm not so lucky. So there it is. Yes or no?"

Charles has never thought of Teach as a father. A mentor, a savior, even a friend, but since he sold his body for the first time Charles has never again wished for a father.

Still, he owes Teach. He owes him his life, ten times over. He owes him like Anne owes Jack: an obligation that can never be discharged. And he owes it to himself to keep his promise to protect Nassau, and to protect Jack.

He nods, slowly, and Teach reaches out and pulls him into an embrace.

***

1709

Eleanor Guthrie strips away Teach's allies, one by one. Charles tries, he really tries, to make her see reason. When he can't, he tries to disentangle himself from her. Instead, he finds his feelings for her growing, finds himself more and more impressed by her intellect and her courage with each victory she claims, finds his belief in Teach's philosophy waning.

"I have the schedule for a transport carrying a bigger load of jewels and pearls than you've ever seen in your life," she tells him one evening, climbing onto his lap and pressing herself against him. "It could make a man wealthy." She rolls her hips against him slowly, adding, "It could make a man's reputation."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying, I think it's time that Captain Charles Vane stepped out of the shadow of Edward Teach."

He halts his hands on their trajectory from her waist to her rear, and grabs her hips to still them. "You want me to sail with my own crew."

"Why not? You're more than capable. You can't be a quartermaster forever."

Charles's heart beats hard in his chest. Every time he's commanded the sailing of a prize back to port, he's found it harder and harder to go back to being second in command, but going out on his own feels like crossing a line he's not sure he's ready to cross. That's not something he can tell Eleanor though, so instead he says, "I don't have a ship."

"Jameson brought in a prize yesterday, a frigate that the crew wants to keep. Jameson's already got his own ship -- the frigate will need to elect a captain." Eleanor leans in close to his ear, and whispers, "It's yours for the taking."

"So are you," he rumbles, squeezing her ass, and she laughs.

***

He goes back to Teach in the morning, to walk the beach and see how the men are doing with repairs to the _Revenge_. "Cannon damage is getting shored up quickly," Teach says. "Who's running that? Hawkins? We should give him a position."

"He'd make a good quartermaster," Charles says, looking at the line of the horizon. Teach stops walking and turns to look at Charles, who meets his gaze evenly, if reluctantly.

"I already have a good quartermaster. Or do I?"

Charles shrugs. "I hear there's a new frigate needs a captain. Can't be a quartermaster forever."

Teach looks at him hard. "Why now?"

"What?"

"Why now? You've been capable of captaining your own ship for at least a year, but you never said it was a thing you wanted. Why now?"

"Opportunity presented itself," Charles says. "You think I shouldn't take it?"

"Of course you should take it. Adding another ship to our fleet will give us more leverage against Hornigold and Guthrie." Teach turns back to the harbor. "Assuming, of course, that you can separate your sense from your dick. That never used to be a problem for you."

***

He wins the election handily. A handful of Teach's crew come with him to the new ship, which they dub the _Ranger_ , and the remainder are recruited from Jameson's men and the other crews on the beach. Teach watches Charles select his crew but doesn't interfere, though he shakes his head when Charles agrees to take on a scrawny popinjay named Jack Rackham. He doesn't shake his head as much over the girl who goes along with Rackham, dressed in trousers and armed to the teeth, especially after she guts the first man who tries to touch her. Charles can't help smiling.

He gets a chart from Eleanor -- her information is good. The ship sails smoothly, the fight goes well despite his untried crew, and the ship's hold is full of emeralds and pearls. Rackham proves himself useful when it turns out he can read and write, as well as being good with numbers. He tallies up the haul and comes up with a starting number for negotiation of the sale during the voyage back to Nassau, while Charles and the other experienced men continue to train the rest of the crew. The girl, Anne Bonny, turns out to be a quick study and a genius with weapons, and nobody except Rackham lays a hand on her for the rest of the voyage.

Charles spends some time thinking on his return to Nassau. He has a choice to make when he gets back. He can sell the loot directly to Eleanor, which was her condition for giving him the location of the shipment, and therefore betray Teach. Or, he can sell the loot to one of her competitors, remain loyal to Teach, and betray Eleanor. There's no option that doesn't involve betraying someone.

He finds himself awake late into the night, and goes out on deck to look at the stars. He's been there maybe ten minutes when Rackham walks up beside him and leans against the gunwale. "Have you decided who we're selling to?" he asks, and while Charles wants to tell him it's none of his fucking business, the fact is that it's everyone's business. Charles keeps quiet, and Rackham, who Charles has learned loves to hear himself talk, fills the silence. "If we sell to the Guthries, this may be the end of an era for Captain Teach. If we don't, we'll have to deal with Hornigold in the fort, and probably some sort of bloody conflict." Rackham looks at Charles, then looks away. "Are you going to hold a vote on the matter?"

"No."

"The articles--"

"Articles say how much of a share each man gets, but I do the negotiating."

"Guthrie will pay more. She has an interest in getting Teach off the island. On the other hand, you and Teach are thick as thieves. He could probably--"

"Shut the fuck up, Rackham."

Rackham just shrugs. "Call me Jack," he says, and leaves Charles alone to make his decision.

***

In the end, he didn't seduce Eleanor -- she seduced him. The loyalty, the affection, the _love_ that Charles has for Teach isn't lessened, but Eleanor has shown him a new way, and a new vision for Nassau, and he loves her for it too. When they put in to port and start unloading the cargo, Charles tells the men to take it to Eleanor.

They don't make it that far. Eleanor has come out to meet him, and rewards him with a dazzling grin when she opens a chest full of emeralds. She's instructing the crew which warehouse to take it to when Teach shows up.

"What are you doing with that cargo?" Teach asks Eleanor. Charles is on a boat rowing the last of the chests to shore, and when he hears the rumble of Teach's voice his gut clenches and he tells his men to row faster.

"Buying it," Eleanor replies.

Teach looks up at Charles as he leaps out into the surf, and says, "What the fuck is going on here, Charles?"

"The tip came from her. She'll pay a better price," he says inanely, aware that that's the least of Teach's concerns.

Teach stares at him for a moment, and Charles knows him well enough to read not just the rage in his eyes, but the hurt behind it. His own heart aches, knowing he's betraying the man who gave him this life. "We should have killed her when her father left," Teach says, "but it's not too late." He draws his cutlass and swings at her, but Charles is faster, and gets his own blade up just in time, positioning himself between the two of them.

"Don't," he says, caught between pleading and the poker face he's learned to keep on permanently. "Don't hurt her."

"Is this what it's come to, then?" Teach asks sadly. "You'll choose this girl over me?" He lowers his weapon, but Charles keeps his ready.

 _I'm sorry,_ he wants to say, but he knows if he does he'll lose some of his power over the crew. Not _I'm sorry that I believe in her vision more than yours,_ but _I'm sorry that I hurt you._

Teach looks at him for a long moment, then turns and walks out of his life.

***

1717

He tells Jack first, after the meeting of captains has dispersed, after everyone has fallen in line under Teach's leadership. The captains file out, Teach included, and Anne leaves to Max's bed. Charles lingers as Jack rolls up his map of the bay and puts the small wooden ships he was using for demonstration into a burlap sack. He lingers as Jack reaches into a cabinet and takes out a bottle of rum, and as Jack pours two glasses.

When he's set the glasses on the table, Charles joins him and drinks his in one gulp. It's not watered, and it burns pleasantly on the way down. "He wants me to leave with him, after," Charles says.

"Fuck," Jack says, then knocks back his own glass. "And you said yes?" he asks, as if he knows the answer but hopes he's wrong.

"We need him." Charles takes the bottle and pours them both another drink. "I owe him."

"You don't owe him shit. He's been gone for eight fucking years!"

Charles puts his hand on Jack's arm to settle him, and Jack looks at Charles's hand like he's never seen such a thing before. "I owe him everything." He pulls his hand back and sighs. "And besides, maybe he's right. Nassau isn't the place for a man like him. Maybe it's not the place for a man like me."

"It's the place you helped _make_." Jack looks down into his cup. "It's the place _we_ made."

It's like there's something swelling inside his chest, something uncomfortably full, and Charles swallows against it. "Come with me," he says. "You and Anne. Come with me and Teach."

Jack looks in his eyes for a long moment, then sighs and shakes his head. "Teach respects you. You'll sail with him without looking over your shoulder the whole time wondering whether he's gonna back someone else to take your place. But me, I have no interest in living as a target of his."

"Jack, you know there's no way I'd ever let that happen."

"Nor would I be a ward of yours," Jack says, and as much as he hates to admit it Charles knows that is what would happen. "I've made something for myself here. Anne has . . . something here. Can't you-- Tell him you'll go, let him lead the fleet. Then when it's over, if we're all still alive, just tell him you've changed your mind and you want to stay."

"You want me to betray him?" Charles shakes his head. "I'm a man of my word, you know that. I betrayed him once before; I won't do it again. The only way I could change this is if he's dead, or I am, and I'm not going to kill him."

He looks at Jack, searching for some sign of acceptance. Jack's eyes shine, and he blinks it away and nods roughly. "Right then. I suppose we have a battle to plan."

***

Somehow, against all odds, Jack's insane plan works. The ships in the bay, with Charles and Teach at the point, backed up by the guns of the fort, make an impressive showing. The navy fleet sends out a launch flying a white flag, with Hornigold in it.

Unfortunately for them, Teach has never forgiven Hornigold for betraying him to Eleanor.

Unfortunately for them, Charles is angry that Hornigold may have killed Flint.

The launch never makes it past the first ship, and the fleet turns and runs scared.

There's a celebration on the beach that night, with free-flowing rum. The brothel sends out all of the girls, and the captains clap Jack on the shoulder and tell him he's a crazy, lucky bastard. Charles drinks more than he intends and as he's always done, Jack hauls him home.

In the morning, Jack comes down to the beach with him to see him off. Most of the crew is already aboard the ship, but Teach waits with the last launch for Charles.

Anne surprises him by embracing him, and mutters, "Don't fucking die," which Charles can't help smiling at.

"Yes, please don't," Jack adds, "I find myself quite hoping you'll return to Nassau some day." Jack reaches out his hand, and Charles takes it, then pulls Jack into a rough hug, holding him tighter than he would have allowed himself a year ago, five years ago, eight years ago. Jack has been his constant companion ever since he left Teach, even closer since he and Eleanor parted ways. He can't explain why they've become so close, but Jack would probably have words for it. Jack has words for everything.

"Godspeed, Charles," Jack says as he draws away.

Charles looks back at him, eyes shining. "Fuck you, Jack," he says, knowing that Jack will know that he means _I love you._ After a long moment, he turns and walks away, out toward the water and his new, old home.

As the sand shifts under his feet and the breaking waves slap the sides of the launch, he feels as though this is a turning point. He's grown to be a captain and a leader in his own right. Not a boy, living in fear of the lash. Not a young man, selling himself to keep his belly full. Not Edward Teach's protege.

He's going with Teach, but as a partner. He's not going to let anyone control him, not anymore.

And so, when he's halfway down the beach, he stops, turns, and heads back up. He walks straight up to Jack, grabs him by the back of the neck, and pulls him down into a bruising kiss, like he's wanted to do for years, but could never allow himself. Jack freezes for a moment, then responds just as ardently, opening his mouth for Charles's tongue, his hands coming up to cup Charles's cheek.

When it ends, Charles leans his forehead against Jack's, reveling in the warm rush of air from Jack's parted lips across his own. Then, releasing him, Charles turns and walks away. He boards the launch with a smile on his face, knowing that if he ever needs a port in a storm, Jack is waiting for him in Nassau.

**Author's Note:**

> FIVE HUNDRED MILLION THANKS to my amazing beta-readers and cheerleaders, [misswonderheart](http://misswonderheart.tumblr.com), [atrata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/atrata), and [wildehack](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyleet/pseuds/Wildehack). I could not have done this without you guys. <3 <3 <3 <3


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